


Grenade

by thirstworldproblemss



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions, gender neutral reader, injury mention, no y/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 05:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30117507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirstworldproblemss/pseuds/thirstworldproblemss
Summary: Din seems to think it doesn’t matter if he gets injured. You disagree.   [Din Djarin x gender neutral Reader]
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	Grenade

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr to fill a request.

“…Like catching a thermal detonator and tossing it back,” he finishes, as though that’s a perfectly reasonable course of action.

You look at Mando sitting on a box between your legs as you perch on the edge of his bunk. You’ve just finished patching up a nasty cut on his arm—the last of the worst of his injuries from today’s fight. 

He actually came through relatively unscathed this time, although the same can’t be said for his clothes. His whole left side is dusted black with ash and slightly singed in places from where he only _mostly_ avoided getting caught in an explosion. The acrid scent of it lingers in the air around him, making your nose and throat sting.

“A thermal detonator. A grenade, you mean.” Your voice comes out devoid of inflection, just as his had.

Mando looks back at you without speaking, seemingly in agreement.

 _A grenade._ You think about the implications of that for a moment and have to swallow hard.

“Mando,” you narrow your eyes at his unyielding helmet, “please tell me you’re not the grenade in this scenario….”

He’s gives a slight shrug and continues staring at you. Or, you _think_ he’s staring at you. The helmet gives you nothing. He could be counting the rivets on the wall behind you for all you know.

“Mando….” You’re having a hard time processing that, feeling the first shockwaves of realization beginning to ripple outward though your thoughts and emotions. “But you’re— you’re not a grenade.”

He’s silent, unmoving as a statue, still giving you absolutely nothing. You’ve been traveling with him for over half a cycle, and it’s _still_ like this. He’ll risk his life for you or the child at the snort of a bantha, or for any random villager you come across it seems like, but _stars forbid_ you want to talk to him about keeping himself safe. It makes you furious.

“You’re not a kriffing weapon!”

He remains silent, but his head tilts ever so slightly to the side, and you can tell he’s surprised by your outburst. Like he can’t imagine why anyone would care if he got hurt. _Maker._ Suddenly you have to work to blink back tears.

“You idiot.” You force the words out past the tightness in your throat. “It matters if you get hurt, Mando.”

He just sits there, as blank and as ever, so you clarify, despite the prickling of nerves at what you might be revealing. You _need_ him to understand.

“It matters to _me_.”

He nods then, decisively. Like he’s finally got you all figured out, and your heart jumps into your throat as you wonder how badly you’ve just given yourself away. You feel like you’re sitting on a grenade of your own: the feelings you’re hiding from him because you know he doesn’t reciprocate. You wait anxiously to see if it’s about to go off under you.

“I’ll protect you,” he declares, as though _that’s_ the problem here. “Won’t let anything happen to you. Or the womp rat.”

_Oh._

Clearly you don’t have to worry about Mando figuring _anything_ out _ever_ , because he’s obviously _the_ densest nerf-herder ever to travel the stars.

“It’s not _me_ I’m w-worried about!” You’re losing the battle with tears now. You feel one spill over and start to slide down your cheek, and you turn your head and wipe it away, trying to hide the fact that you’re crying, as though he didn’t just hear the catch in your voice.

“I’m worried about _you._ ” Your voice is barely above whisper, “I don’t… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

There’s a burst of static, like he made some noise the helmet’s modulator couldn’t translate, and then he’s leaning in and grasping your chin with solid fingers. The leather of his glove is cool against your skin as he turns you back to face him.

You don’t fight him. A few more tears are leaking out now, forced out by the thought that he might consider himself expendable, that he could possibly think you believe the same. You swipe at your eyes, but you don’t fight him as he turns you toward him.

“You—” Even through the helmet, his voice sounds low and raw. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath as though he’s going to continue, but nothing else comes out.

You think you know what he’s asking anyway, though, so you nod your head as much as you can with his fingers still gripping your chin.

You realize that you’re trembling slightly, heart beating in your ears at how close you are to blowing your secret wide open, but somehow not giving away your feelings seems less important in the face of his surprise at the idea that he might matter to someone—that he might matter _to you_. You stare into his impassive visor and will him to understand.

“You would care if I died.” His voice is flat, expressionless. It’s not a question, but you answer him anyway.

“Of course I would care if you died!” You give his beskar covered chest a shove. “I care about you, Mando.”

You flinch when his fingers tighten painfully on your chin. They loosen again almost immediately, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t move another muscle, and neither do you, frozen in place as much by the weight of his attention as you are by the hand gripping your face.

“You ca—” His voice cracks, but he continues anyway, sounding strained, “you care about me?” This time it _is_ a question, soft and disbelieving, and despite the low growling tone and the distortion of the modulator, he sounds… _young_ and so very unsure.

Fresh tears spill from your eyes, and you wipe them away again, nodding. His fingers on your face feel less like a prison now and more like a caress. You tilt your head, rubbing your face against the soft leather of his glove, as your hand comes up to trap his there against your cheek.

You stare into his visor and try to swallow down your tears, your pride, and your _sheer fucking terror_ at the idea that you’re standing on the precipice of blowing your defenses all to hell, about to bare your soul to him.

“I do. I care about you, Mando,” you manage, feeling strangely proud when your voice only shakes a little.

You catch the barest sideways movement of his helmet, like he’s shaking his head no, and suddenly you’re desperate to make him understand. Embarrassment be damned, pride be damned, fallout be damned—you’re going to get it through this man’s thick skull that he is _the most important thing_ to at least one person in this kriffing universe.

“I luh-…,” your voice stalls out, and you’re not quite able to make yourself to say the word you’ve kept secret for so long. “I _care_ about you, and if anything happened to you….”

You struggling to find another way to say it that he won’t be able to misinterpret or ignore, and finally settle for dragging his hand down the side of your neck and across your chest until it’s resting on the left side, over your heart. His helmet tilts to follow the descent, and your throat is so tight you almost can’t get the words out. “If you died, it would hurt me. Here. Because you’re in my heart.”

The helmet snaps back up, and his whole body tenses. You get the feeling that he’s holding his breath, waiting for you to continue.

Fear and embarrassment and shame rise up again, but you’ll be damned if you let them stop you from getting through to him, so you take a deep breath. You feel your chest rise and then fall under his hand and yours, then you grit your teeth, and prepare to detonate your grenade.

You stare straight into his visor, as close as you can come to meeting his eyes, and you give him your most closely held secret. You give him the truth.

“I love you, Mando.”

There’s an explosion of static from the helmet, as though he let out a breath he’d been holding too long, and then a rush of movement.

When you can track what’s happening again, you realize that you’re kneeling on the floor in Mando’s arms, his helmet wedged into the crook of your neck, beskar pressing in uncomfortably from all sides as he holds you tightly against him, his body as rigid and unyielding as the hull of the Crest. Under your knees, the metal floor feels cold and hard, and your arms are trapped strangely between your bodies. You wiggle around until you can work first one arm, then the other free, and then you wrap them both around Mando.

That, finally, seems to shock him out of his stillness.

“I-I— You—“ he cuts himself off, can’t seem to finish. His chest heaves irregularly like he can’t get enough air, the staticky sound of his ragged gasps coming to you through the modulator. This close, the smell of burnt cloth is almost overwhelming, and the hard angles of his breastplate press painfully into your chest each time he inhales, but you don’t care. You just hold him tighter.

“Yes,” you tell him firmly, when nothing more is forthcoming. Then you lay your head on his shoulder as best you can with the pauldron in the way, so that you can whisper it into the side of his helmet, “I love you, Mando.”

“D-Din.”

“What?”

“’S’my name. Din.”

 _His name!_ You’re crying again, but you’ve also never smiled so wide. You think your heart might burst with happiness. _He’s giving you his name!_

“I love you, Din,” you whisper, molding yourself to him as best you can, beskar be damned.

He makes a sound, one you’ve only ever heard from him when he’s wounded or in pain, and he hugs you to him, tighter than ever. Your heart aches as you squeeze him back, wondering how long it’s been since he last heard that particular combination of words.

Mando— _Din_ shudders in your arms like a ship with faulty stabilizers. He’s shaking so hard that you think your arms around him might be the only thing keeping him together, and you hold on as tightly as you can. You’re gonna have a bruise from that kriffing chestplate, but like hell you’re letting go. You _never_ want to let him go.

“I love you, Din,” you say again, pressing your hands into the backs of his wide shoulders, feeling the way they jump and lurch. You run your hands down the sides of his back next, trying to touch as much of him as you can around the armor, and you whisper your secret to him to him over and over again, willing him to believe. “I love you. I love you, Din. I love _you_.”

You cup the back of his helmet in one hand and tuck your chin into the crook of his neck underneath the edge of it, lips seeking out the tiny patch of skin there, the one that you sometimes (rarely) get a peak of. Underneath the harsh smell of burnt fabric, you can catch a hint of his scent, warm and masculine and _human_ , and you inhale greedily as you continue to whisper your love into his skin. You want to imprint the words on him, etch them into his very bones, so he’ll never forget. So he’ll never again think he doesn’t matter.

After several long moments, the shaking dies down, and his body settles into stillness once more. He gives you one final squeeze, then loosens his hold. 

You lean back and start to pull away, figuring he might want some privacy after such an intense display of emotion. _Kriff. You_ want some privacy, suddenly mortified by what you’ve revealed, but he takes you by the shoulders, holding you there face-to— well, face-to-helmet.

The helmet looks just the same as it ever does, t-shaped visor giving away nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. Your face feels hot, and tears threaten once again, but you fight them back. You’ve already cried enough for one day. _Besides,_ you reason, _it’s done._ Your grenade is well and truly blown now. He knows how you feel, and it’s too late to take it back, so you might as well make sure it’s worth whatever damage it’s going to cause.

“I love you, Din,” you say again to that blank mask, to the man underneath, and it feels less like a confession this time and more like a promise. “So you have to be careful. It’s not enough to keep the baby and me safe. You have to keep yourself safe too, for me. _Please._ ”

Despite your best efforts, you feel your face start to crumple, and you try to tuck your chin to hide until you can get yourself back under control, but Din’s got a hand on your cheek again, holding you up to face him. So you do. You face him squarely and let him see you cry. You’ve given him everything else already, you can give him this too. You’d give him anything.

He holds you there for a long moment, and you keep your eyes trained on his visor, even as your chin wobbles against his fingers, trying to show him without words that you mean everything you said.

“You’re so brave,” he says eventually, and the warmth of his tone catches you by surprise. “ _Kotepne kar’ta_ , the bravest heart.”

“What— What do you—?”

“I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t make myself say it, but here you are, giving me everything.” You can hear something akin to awe in his voice, and his gloved thumb sweeps over your cheek, wiping your tears away.

“I— What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he says slowly and clearly, “that I love you too.”

You stare at the blankness of his visor for a minute, trying to make sense of what you just heard.

 _He lo— he loves— he loves you too! Mando—_ Din _loves you too!_

There seems to be a star burning in your chest, exploding outward from your heart. A smile paints itself across your face, every inch of you tingling with wild elation and joy.

You want to kiss him, and you lift your hands in an abortive movement, reaching for his face, but…. the helmet.

Your hands hang there between you awkwardly for a moment, then he huffs out a breath and wraps a gentle hand around the back of your neck, leaning in and pulling you in as well until your forehead meets the cool beskar of his helmet.

Your eyes are level with the viewport, and you search the blackness for a few seconds, but even inches away you can’t see anything underneath. You don’t know what’s happening.

“Din?”

“S’a keldabi kiss,” his voice rumbles out.

_Wha—what did he say?_

“Can’t give you a normal kiss because of the helmet. Not yet. Mandalorians do this instead.”

 _Oh!_ Your breath catches and you press your forehead so hard against the beskar that your vision starts to go white at the edges.

Din just chuckles and pulls you back from him, waiting until you realize you should stop trying to brain yourself on his helmet like an idiot. Then he wraps his arms around you and pulls you to him again. “Careful, ner’kar’ta, I want you to remain uninjured as well.”

You laugh too, relieved and happy, and hug him back for a long moment.

“So,” you look up at him questioningly, “that means no more grenades, right? No more stupid risks?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, and you’re about to ask again when he finally says, “I can’t— I can’t promise no risks. There are too many dangers. My life would be worth it to keep you safe.”

That’s not what you were hoping to hear, but before you can figure out how to press the issue, he keeps going.

“I’ll be as careful as I can. I always want to come back to you, but more now that I know I have a home in your heart.”

You hum consideringly, then tell him, “I guess that will do. _For now._ ”

“Maybe you should—” he begins, but then he stops talking. You think he might even have stopped breathing.

“Maybe I should…?” you prompt after several seconds tick by.

A quick inhale through the modulator, then, “M—Maybe you should re-remind me often.” His voice is soft, almost hesitant, “Of—of my place in your heart.”

His helmet is tilted downward, and you feel a slight tremor in his hands where they’re wrapped around you, and— _Oh_ —you realize suddenly that he must be self-conscious, _embarrassed_ to be asking for your affection, maybe even afraid that you’ll say no. _Oh, Din._

“You have a home in my heart, Din,” you say quickly, repeating it back to him the same way he said it before. You take his trembling hand and press it to your chest again, right over the place that has never felt quite as full and warm as it does for him right now. “Always. I love you.”

“And you have a home in mine, ner’kar’ta.” He grabs your other hand and brings it to his chest, mirroring your position, “ _Ner’kar’ta_ , my heart.”

He lowers his helmet gently to your forehead, and his voice is low and earnest, when he says, “No more grenades. I’ll do my best. I promise.”

You find yourself on the edge of tears once more, and you have to take a deep breath to steady yourself. Then you pause, and take another one.

“Great!” you say, pulling back and smiling, even as you wrinkle your nose at him. “Then it’s time for you to stop smelling like one. Go use the fresher, Mando, you need it!”

A burst of laughter escapes him, and he rocks back to his feet, pulling you up with him. One last hug, and then he goes, still chuckling, into the fresher, closing the door behind him. You find yourself standing there grinning stupidly after him, almost prouder to have made him laugh than you are of anything else you’ve done today. _Almost_.

_No more grenades._


End file.
